


nothing will corrupt us (nothing will compete)

by kafkas



Category: Devilman
Genre: Akira: damn bitch you live like this ?, Gen, M/M, Mindfuck, POV Second Person, Some light cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-03 18:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12151914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kafkas/pseuds/kafkas
Summary: You think you might have left a part of yourself behind in that basement. Or – and you don’t like to dwell on this – maybe you brought something back with you.





	nothing will corrupt us (nothing will compete)

**Author's Note:**

> \- I wanted to experiment writing in second-person, which I'm well aware is not everybody's cup of tea, so sorry in advance for that.  
> \- At which point in the canon is this set? We just don't know

 

You’ve not been sleeping. Or, rather, you’ve been waking up feeling as if you haven’t, joints aching, a throbbing sensation manifesting at the base of your skull. Ryou assures you it’s just the new powers, going to roost, but you’re not so sure. Something about the way he says it, smile a little too easy, features a little too serene, makes you think – but that’s ridiculous. Ryou is your best friend. He wouldn’t lie to you. _Couldn’t_ lie to you.

 _We’d rip him to shreds_ , whispers a voice that is not your own.

You swallow around the dryness at the back of your throat, feeling nauseous. The sensation only doubles when said best friend slides into the booth opposite you, a basket of greasy fries in his hands. Greasy fries, and two large sodas, still sweating. Things the Makimuras only buy for special occasions. Things you’d leap at, if you were still you.

‘… then we can visit Hamasaki, grill him.’

You startle, headache spiking. Ryou is looking at you flatly, his eyes red-rimmed. He’s been functioning off of little but weed and painkillers for the last week as a way of dealing with the bruised ribs, exacerbated during his sudden flight from the hospital. Rather than mellowing him out, it’s only made him crankier.

‘Huh?’

‘I was _saying_ , we ought to drive out to Jinbōchō tomorrow, see about that antiques dealer.’

‘Antiques dealer?’

Ryou huffs. ‘You’ve really not been listening to a word I’ve been saying, have you?’

‘Er…’

‘Kichirou Hamasaki. Purveyor of traditional ceramic wares. The last three people who’ve bought from him have died under mysterious circumstances. Now doesn’t that just sound like the perfect pretext for occult activity?’

The words come to you as if through a thick wall, fading in and out of focus. You squint, trying to ignore the dark, rushing sound in your ears.

‘Ryou, I can’t go to Jinbōchō tomorrow – I have school.’

‘You’re not serious.’ Ryou leans his elbows on the table, grasping you by the wrists. His gaze is fierce. ‘We’re talking about the end of fucking days, Akira, and you’re worried about school?’

‘Entrance exams are coming up, and Miki’s parents are paying for cram my sessions.’

Ryou releases you, burying his head in his hands. You hear him mutter something that sounds suspiciously like _pushover._

‘Look, why don’t you go and see Hamasaki on your own? I doubt he’s going to attack you in broad daylight. Even if he is a demon.’

Ryou looks up at you from between his fingers, witheringly.

‘Okay, bad idea. Sorry.’ You reach for a soda, not to drink, but just to hold in your hands. Ryou watches you roll the can between the flats of your palms, concern gradually smoothing out his features – a carnival lights display, shutting down.

‘Hey, you don’t look so hot.’

You want to say something biting, because that’s what you’ve been trying to tell him all day, but upon opening your mouth the energy suddenly leaves you and you slump, boneless, back against the seat. Ryou tilts his head at you, bird-like.

‘Akira?’

‘I’m okay,’ you mumble. Ryou has enough to worry about without you dragging your own problems into the mix. You close your eyes for a moment and feel the darkness pulse around you, vital and malignant, and from it a voice, sibilant: _one of these days it’s going to tear you in two._

_What will?_

A horrible, rasping sound, like corrugated iron billowing in the wind. It takes a moment for you to realize it’s laughter.

_You know._

Hands, gripping your shoulders. Ryou’s voice in your ear, sharp as a whip-crack. ‘— Akira? Jesus Christ, what the fuck is going on with you? You’re freaking me out.’

You sway a little, your nausea returning. ‘I don’t – what?’

Hovering at your shoulder – since when had he moved, anyway? – Ryou’s expression darkens.

‘Excuse me?’ A waitress, drawn over by the commotion. ‘Is everything alright?’

‘Well? Is it, Akira?’

At Ryou’s prompting, you turn on your award-winning smile. ‘It’s fine. I just need some fresh air.’

The waitress seems skeptical, lingering for a while before moving off to serve the other customers. Ryou watches her go, brows knitted together disdainfully. Before you can object, he’s hoisting you to your feet and dragging you towards the exit.

‘Hey, we haven’t paid –’

‘I don’t give a shit.’

‘But I like this place!’

Ryou gives you a look, as if to say, _don’t make me repeat myself._ Devilman or no, it’s enough to put you in your place. When he props open the car door, you follow his lead as meekly as a lamb.

 

 

 

Street lights shutter past. Rather than taking the freeway to the outskirts of Tokyo, you find yourself delving deeper into the city, where the traffic is thick and swathes of people block the roads. Ryou blares his horn.

‘We’re not going to a strip club or something, are we?’ you ask, nervously.

‘We’re going to my apartment.’

‘Since when have you lived in Kabukicho?’

‘Since a horde of demons destroyed my house,’ Ryou says, crinkling his nose.

You shrug and rest your head against the window. A couple of months ago you would have balked at the thought of visiting the red light district, but somehow a part of you has become – if not more complacent – than at least less inhibited.

You think you might have left a part of yourself behind in that basement. Or – and you don’t like to dwell on this – maybe you brought something back with you. It’s there in the light of the refrigerator, which you often find yourself standing in front of long after Miki and her family have turned in, unable to sleep, craving things you’ve never been partial to before – tough, brackish fish; whole cartons of ginger; other foods that make your eyes water, lotus root and _kimchi nabe._ The electric hum of the generator. Shadows passing beneath your door at night – _just Tare up for a midnight snack_ , you tell yourself, though the kid always seems genuinely confused whenever you bring it up. And, once, a figure glimpsed in the mirror of the bathroom cabinet, hulking and vindictive, frame drawn tight like a bowstring and gone the moment upon turning.

You’ve begun to grow wary of being watched. Ryou says you’re being paranoid, that demons don’t stalk, don’t premeditate. ‘They’re nothing more than impulsive beasts, slaves to their own appetites.’

You throw yourself into your work. Miki is irritated, then intrigued. Then irritated again. You wish you could speak to her, want something other than Ryou’s cold equivocation, his shifting, rippling face. Miki would have something sensible to say about all of this. She’d sit you down and she’d apply the proper gauzes, rub iodine into your wounds and pat you on the arm, send you on your way.

Ryou says that if you bring Miki in on the secret, she’ll wind up lying dismembered in some ditch by the side of the road, or down a dark alley. That, or he’ll have to kill her himself.

You think he might be a little jealous.

 

 

 

Ryou’s apartment is above a noodle restaurant and positioned across the cul-de-sac from a love hotel. At first that’s where you think you’re going. Then Ryou leads you through a steamy kitchen and up six flights of stairs, passing screaming neighbors, crying babies and a landlord haranguing somebody for rent. By the time you stagger through the door, you feel as if you’ve experienced an auditory assault.

‘I guess you spent all your inheritance on the Miata,’ you say, twisting a finger in your ear, and then cringe at your insensitivity.

If Ryou is upset, he doesn’t show it – but, then again, does he ever show it? As he turns on the buzzing overheads, you begin to see just how dismal the place really is. Cramped and shadowy, mildew forming in the corners of the ceiling. There’s a mattress pressed up against the far wall, strewn with clothes – some of them distinctly feminine in appearance. Your eyes are drawn to the roll of bandages on the kitchen island, and then to the pile of dirty dishes stacked beside the sink. Mrs. Makimura would blow a gasket if she could see this – a real bachelor pad.

‘Have something to drink,’ Ryou says, gesturing to the carafe of iced coffee on the table, ‘I’m making eggs.’

‘At this hour?’

‘You seem depressed. Whenever I was feeling unwell, my father made me breakfast.’ Rattling about in the pantry, he carefully avoids your gaze. ‘Figure eggs and bacon is the least I can do after getting you into this mess.’

‘That’s… awfully kind of you,’ you say, even though the thought of eating right now makes your insides clench.

‘Besides,’ Ryou says, as if he hasn’t heard you, ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to go back to the Makimuras tonight. Call it intuition, you seem a little ornery.’

‘Well, if you say so.’ You’re too tired to argue.

Ryou cracks an egg against the counter, tossing it into the pan with an easy elegance. You suppose he’s had a lot of practice cooking for himself. Suddenly, you feel a stab of pity.

‘You know, there’s great student accommodation near my school. I’m sure if Mr. Makimura spoke to the administrator, he could pull some strings.’

‘No,’ Ryou says, bluntly, and then, by way of an explanation, ‘I don’t like people.’

‘Gee, you sure know how to flatter a guy, Ryou.’

‘What’s this got to do with you?’ Ryou says, and in the fluorescent light his eyes are haloed silver, ‘You’re not a person, Akira. Not anymore.’

 _No, you’re a monster,_ says the voice in your head, smilingly.

‘Shut _up_ ,’ you snap. Ryou blinks at you, stunned. You glare at him for a moment before digging your knuckles into your eyes, sighing. ‘I’m sorry,’ you say, ‘I don’t know what’s gotten into me.’

_Oh, but I think you do._

You press harder, until your vision blooms red and your eyes begin to hurt.

 _I think you know_ just _what’s gotten into you, Akira Fudou._

_Fuck off, bastard._

‘Do you often talk to yourself?’ Ryou asks, casually.

You blanch, thinking that you’ve spoken aloud again, but Ryou’s only shuffling eggs with a spatula, his posture relaxed. You watch, apprehensively, as he jostles the pan, smiling thinly. 

‘Sometimes,’ you say, and it’s not a lie. Not really. You started talking to yourself right after the incident with Sirene. First as a way to cope, to rally your thoughts, and then as a force of habit. You leave out the part about somebody talking back, though. Something tells you Ryou would find that part particularly suspect.

‘I ask because my father started rambling right before he killed himself. I suspect that he was attempting to reason with the demon that had inhabited his body.’ Turning off the stove, Ryou approaches and sets down the plate before you. He’s arranged the eggs and bacon into a smiling visage, so incongruous with his own face that you have to tamp down on the urge to laugh.

‘I worry about you, is all,’ he says, sitting down, ‘Whether Amon’s giving you any trouble. If you’re coping.’

He looks terribly earnest. If you tilt your head you can just about make out the boy you knew so many years ago, sensitive and eager to please. Perhaps a little too eager to please.

In that dark place at the base of your skull, something shudders to life, glossy and roiling. You think of baby snakes. Soft white eggshell, yellow yolk. Your stare catches on the mattress, over his shoulder, and you think about how easy it would be – how you could, with a certain application of force, bend Ryou Asuka entirely to your will. How he’d probably go willingly, happily, though he’d pretend to resist you, of course. You think, maybe, you’d like it if he resisted.

_You could have him. He’s ever so fond of you._

_But Miki –_

_That dumpy little bitch? You’re kidding yourself. It’s not like she’s ever going to put out. Your buddy Ryou on the other hand…_

_Stop it._

You shake your head, as if clearing it of water. Ryou’s working on a slice of bacon, ignoring you in the hopes that you’ll talk. He’s not aware of your internal struggle. Not yet.

 _Think of how it’d be._ Suddenly, the voice goes breathy, girlish. _‘Oh, Akira, I never… I never thought…’_

You grit your teeth, cross your legs.

 _‘I’ve been so lonely. I’ve been so lost. But you_ saved _me, Akira, you hauled me into the light. I want you to – I want you to_ have _this, Akira. My gift to you, to do with what you like.’_ Pornographic moaning. You feel your face redden.

_You’re disgusting._

_I think you’re enjoying this more than you’re letting on. Or maybe you want_ him _to have_ you _?_

_I don’t know. Your impression could use some work._

_I thought it was pretty bang-on._

It was. As the tide recedes, the rushing in your ears dulling to a low static, you feel shame prickle over you like so many insects. By now Ryou is looking at you, one pale eyebrow raised.

‘I…’ you clear your throat, ‘I can’t say I’ve heard from him.’

‘Not at all?’

‘He’s been as quiet as a mouse,’ you say, laughing in a way that sounds unconvincing even to your own ears.

Ryou stares at you, eyes narrowed, before returning to his meal.

‘Oh well. If you’re so sure.’

‘I am,’ you say, stubborn, detrimental. You look down and, completely unbidden, find a butter knife clasped in your hand. You drop it before Ryou can notice, shaken.

‘Since you agreed to stay here, I guess you’ve come around to my plan.’

‘What?’

Ryou smiles meanly. ‘Jinbōchō. Kichirou Hamasaki.’

‘Oh.’

‘It’s not like you can go to school in your condition, anyway.’

‘No, I guess not. I’ll have to call Miki.’

Ryou waves his fork at you, unconcerned. ‘You can do that later. Eat your breakfast.’

You take a deep breath, force yourself to cut into an egg. The golden slick that spills across your plate makes bile rise to the back of your throat. Lifting a morsel to your mouth, it occurs to you perhaps that what you are feeling is not nausea, as you had first assumed, but lust. Lust for the raw food that Amon had been so accustomed to – rich in fat, drenched in blood, still thrumming with life even as it tore apart beneath your teeth. Lust for the flesh, for the carnal.

Your stomach rumbles loudly. Ryou snorts.

‘Somebody’s hungry.’

 

 

Needless to say, you fail the entrance exam.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l4fFL4uU_RE)


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